


The Anniversary

by Sensue



Series: Suitcase of Memories [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adoption, Brotherhood AU, Childhood Trauma, Gen, Pre-Series, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:54:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26000713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sensue/pseuds/Sensue
Summary: It is the anniversary of Caleb's parents' murder-suicide. He stands on the bridge staring down at the cold water...  Trigger warning for suicidal thoughts after a traumatic childhood.
Series: Suitcase of Memories [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1887088
Kudos: 2





	The Anniversary

_November 1984  
New York City_

Dr. Mackland Ames sat at his desk, shuffling through the papers hastily arranged on his desk, looking for an article he'd read in the latest Journal of Neurology. He'd read it and quickly discounted the information since his own research clearly showed the opposite result. He'd planned on writing to the authors and sending them his own research—in a way, challenging them to continue to publish their preposterous theories.

"Ouch," he yelped, quickly pulling his hand away and pressing on the paper cut he'd just given himself. The doctor refused to suck on it—there was no telling how many microbes and bacteria that might be transferred—and instead, he went over to the sink and thoroughly washed it and then bandaged the small irritation.

Suddenly, the phone rang making Mac swear softly under his breath. The phone continued to ring and he noticed that Naomi, his assistant, was on lunch and therefore wouldn't rush to answer it. He glared at her through the glass window, then answered the phone _himself_.

"This is Dr. Ames. How can I help you?" His voice was terse, annoyed by the fact that he had to answer the phone.

"Dr. Ames, this is Principal Marcus at the Masterson Preparatory Academy."

Mackland's heart sank as he realized that his son's school was calling— _again_. "Yes, Principal Marcus. What can I do for you?" _I truly hope this isn't a repeat of the goat incident,_ he thought.

"Dr. Ames, I was just calling to confirm Caleb's absence from school today. As you know, our academy has a very strict attendance policy. As of today, your son has used up all of the allowed absences for the year. And considering we are only three months into the first semester, I'm concerned. I know that your son suffers from a seizure disorder, but if his medical issues are that serious, perhaps you can apply to send him to a private facility designed to cater to his special needs."

Mac's mouth dropped open, shock making him temporarily speechless. "I'm sorry, but perhaps you are thinking of a different student—"

Principal Marcus huffed on the other end of the line. "Dr. Ames, I'm looking at your stationery—you've written Caleb several notes excusing him from classes that might exasperate his condition."

"Please, hold for a moment." Mac quickly put the phone on hold, then started digging through his desk drawer for his personal stationery. He found the small pile and started to count. One of the packages had been opened, and he didn't remember opening it. There were only five pads left in a package that was supposed to hold six. Mac bit his lip, trying to force himself to remain calm.

Of all the stunts his adopted son had pulled as of late, he'd never stolen from him before. And now, he found that Caleb had gone through his desk and stolen his stationary to forge notes in order to skip school, and apparently he was about to get kicked out of yet _another_ private school.

He took the phone off of hold, "Principal Marcus. Thank you for your patience. I also thank you for taking the time to personally call me. May I ask, what will happen if Caleb gets another absence?"

The man on the other end sounded as if he were shuffling papers, "Dr. Ames, while Masterson Preparatory Academy truly appreciates the Ames family and its generous donations to our school, we must consider the best options for your son. It's become quite clear that this perhaps is not the appropriate place for Caleb. As you know, we've ignored some _unruly_ behavior—especially concerning the goat escapade—considering he was adjusting to the new atmosphere. And now, after speaking with you, I have a distinct impression that your son doesn't _have_ a seizure disorder… I think it would be best to transfer him quickly; of course, we will be willing to allow Caleb to stay for a short while until you can make proper arrangements for him—let's say two weeks?"

Mac's hand tightened on the phone, and he gritted his teeth as he spoke, "Yes, of course. That should be sufficient time. If you would be kind to get his records ready, in order for me to transfer them to the new school?"

Principal Marcus smiled on the other end, unseen by his client, "The records have already been pulled and they are ready for transfer at any time."

Mac leaned back against his chair, "Could you perhaps recommend another private school that may be willing to accept him?"

"Why, yes," the man sounded eager, "Please feel free to try the Westchester Military Academy. They've done wonders with their students, especially in terms of behavior and discipline. I think that you would be pleasantly surprised at how quickly Caleb's attitude will change for the better."

He shook his head, sending his son to a military school was not an option, "Thank you, again. I'll take that into consideration." He hung up the phone slowly.

The doctor sat at his desk quietly for a few minutes, all thoughts of research and work forgotten as he tried to keep himself in check. Things were out of control and he hated when things got out of control.

He stared down at his silver ring, worrying at it—he'd recently been promoted in the ranks of the Brotherhood by Pastor James Murphy, the Guardian. It was a shocking decision; everyone was surprised, including himself. Dr. Griffin Porter was Jim's close friend, and it was assumed that he would take on the role of Scholar after Victor Stephen's retirement and subsequent move to Hawaii with his new young bride. Gossip and rumor tore through the hunting community after his acceptance. Many hunters hadn't even heard of him, as he'd only worked with a handful of them personally. Mac questioned Jim's choice, he was a researcher and while he did have some field training, he was best suited for an office job. But, Jim told him that it didn't matter; "You have the heart of a Scholar, Mackland. This is your place—you've earned it."

It was difficult, all of sudden being thrust into a new role; one that he wasn't prepared for. It took considerable time out of his already busy schedule to acclimate himself as The Scholar. He'd made several trips to Jim's home in Kentucky, dragging along his unwilling thirteen-year-old. Caleb wasn't very excited by the turn around; their routine had been disrupted.

The FBI called him almost regularly now, requesting him in order to help track missing or exploited children. Mac had taken to calling his father to babysit his grandson, as he was the only adult that Caleb didn't treat with distrust and aggression. Caleb would sit and talk with the older man, telling him funny stories and showing him his artwork without anyone urging him to do so. And Cullen would laugh and share his own childhood stories…ones that Mackland himself had never heard his father mention before. It surprised the doctor; he would've never thought that the two would bond that quickly—and he was a little bit jealous; he wished that he and his father had shared that kind of relationship in his youth.

Although his own relationship with his father was uncertain, he could never begrudge the connection that he shared with Caleb. It was obvious that they both loved each other. Cullen Ames would give Caleb the world if he asked for it…but, Caleb wasn't interested in the material things, all he truly wanted from the old man was his friendship and love. Mac was so proud of him; he'd heard stories from the neighbors, their teenagers ran up all of their credit cards and put them in thousands of dollars in debt with their spoiled 'I-can-buy-whatever-I-want' attitudes. Most teenagers would run amok after suddenly becoming rich and he couldn't get his son to buy a new pair of boots to save his life!

Mackland truly felt that Caleb was a good boy—one who was now just starting to become a man. He agreed—volunteered, actually, to start practicing with his psychic abilities and focused all of his attention on working with Master Chen in his martial arts class. Caleb was slowly starting to build his body strength, wanting to push past the lanky and uncoordinated feel of his growing limbs. He'd caught the boy staring into the mirror a few times checking his face for facial hair. Mac laughed at him only in his mind—Caleb was starting to grow 'peach-fuzz' across his jaw and knew that the time would soon come when he would be asked to teach him how to shave.

Unfortunately, Caleb had a serious problem with adults that he didn't know. Teachers, police officers, psychologists, and social workers were all ignored, harassed, and/or sworn at. He would anger his principal and get kicked out of school with some half-assed prank but would go out of his way to help an elderly woman walk across the street. It was confounding. Mackland only assumed that the woman reminded the boy of his grandmother.

There was something else that was slowly eating away at the doctor. Caleb never wanted to talk about his past experiences. Mac could only imagine what it was like for such a small child to witness his parents' murder/suicide. Caleb refused to speak of it—even to his own grandmother, God rest her soul when she was alive. His grandmother's best friend and Caleb's previous guardian, Bird Isabel had told him to tread carefully down that path. She'd warned him that if he pushed Caleb too hard about the past, he would only runaway. He'd trusted her council; the woman knew Caleb—she wanted the best for him. As a father, Mac wanted to protect his son from his traumatizing past, but as a doctor, he knew that the boy would have to talk about it eventually and hoped that he would come to him when he was ready.

Although Caleb Reaves had seen many horrors in his young life, there was a strength about him that Mackland was in awe of. He stared at the photo on his desk. It was taken shortly after the adoption was finalized—it was a family photo…three generations of Ames men. It was the one photo that Mackland treasured above all else; to him, it was a true Kodak moment. It had taken hours of rushing, pleading, and out-right bribery to get his son into a suit, but it was well worth the effort. Not only did he have his family photo, but he had a happy memory of their laughing and making faces at the camera for hours before finally choosing the 'normal-happy' one together to develop. A larger version of the photo hung on their mantle. Caleb chose one of the silly ones to keep for himself—"if only for blackmail," he quoted.

Mac pressed the intercom button, "Naomi, I'm heading home early. If anyone calls, just tell them that I'm out of the office." His son was his number one priority—he needed to go home. He needed to talk to the boy. Caleb was heading towards a path of self-destruction and it was something that Mac couldn't allow to happen. He'd saved his life that day in the hospital, he'd taken him into his home and into his heart; they were family now—and he would do anything to protect that boy—even give up his life for him. Mac knew that sometimes, the hardest thing in the world was to say 'no' to someone you loved.

He stood and grabbed his suit jacket, forcing himself into that mindset; it was time to lay down the law.

Mackland sat at the kitchen table and stared at the front door, tapping his nails on the wood, willing Caleb to come home. He glanced at the clock again for the millionth time. It was nearing 7:00 pm. While it was still under his 8:00 pm curfew; this was the first time that the boy didn't call home or leave a message to his whereabouts. Mac was worried—something was wrong.

Just as he was about to start calling around to Caleb's friends' for the third time that day, the door opened and Caleb walked in. He threw his jacket and bag down on the floor and started walking towards his room, completely ignoring his father. Mac quickly stepped in front of him, blocking the path. "Where have you been, Caleb?"

Caleb glared at him, "It's none of your business." He spat the words out as he tried to go past the older man.

Mac grabbed him by the shoulders and swung him back around to face him. "It _is_ my business. Where were you?" His voice was stern. He would no longer tolerate the boy's unruly behavior.

Caleb shrugged out of his hold and then physically shoved him away. "You're not my father! So, just leave me alone."

Mac grabbed his wrist as he started to run towards the front door and pulled him into his personal space. "You're not running away from me, Caleb."

Suddenly, he found himself in a battle. The boy was holding nothing back as he started using his martial arts training to fight his father. Thankfully, the older man was also an expert; he hadn't had many opportunities as of late to practice the Asian art-form, but it was like riding a bike. Reacting quickly, he pinned thirteen-year-old; each hand was crossed over the young man's chest, effectively forcing him to 'hug' himself. His back was pressed tightly against his Mac's chest. Caleb threw his head back in an attempt to hit him in the face, but Mac had predicted the move and avoided the blow. He quickly pulled him down to the floor and pinned his legs with his own, as if he were surrounding him like an octopus.

While Mac might've successfully stopped Caleb from physically attacking him, the boy was still screaming obscenities at him as he fought to free himself. "Let me go! You're not my father. You're nothing to me! You fucking bastard, just let me go."

"Caleb," Mac tightened his hold and forced himself to remain calm. He spoke evenly, "Calm down. I'm not going to hurt you." Something was wrong, he felt it—Caleb's heart was pounding double-time against his chest. He was afraid the boy would hurt himself in his panic.

Caleb bucked back again, "Let me go! You're not my father!" Mac winced as Caleb's head pounded hard against his shoulder. "You're not my father."

Quickly, Mac reached out to him psychically. It was painful—the boy had started working on building 'shields' around his thoughts and when he tried to read him, it was as if it was a sledgehammer slammed into his brain. There was a flash and he found himself witnessing the worst day in his son's young life.

In Caleb's mind, Mackland watched as Isaac Reaves pulled out a knife and stabbed it into his wife's swelling body multiple times until she bled out. A wave of fear flooded through him as the man appeared to see him—thankfully, he didn't seem to be a target as Reaves walked over, picked up a gun, put it in his mouth, and then pulled the trigger. Blood was everywhere—covering every surface of what had been a warm family home. The sound of the gunshot echoed in his ears and it was only after a few seconds did he realize that someone was screaming. A small boy—his son, crawled out, ignoring the blood staining his clothing and hands. He ran to his mother and threw himself on top of her body. Caleb shook the woman, trying to wake her and was unable to do so. Mac watched as Caleb cried for what must've seemed like hours to a traumatized child. The door was suddenly kicked down by police officers as they entered the beach home with their guns at the ready. The men scoured the house looking for signs of an infiltrator—no emotional reaction shown after seeing the bloody scene. The little boy ran away from them in fear and somehow ended up in his father's office. He threw himself under the desk (it had been his favorite hiding place when his family would play hide-and-seek together); the collision of his small body hitting the desk caused the house of cards that he and his father had worked on only days before to fall to the floor in front of him. One of the cards stood out from the others, and Caleb quickly picked up the deuce card and clutched it against his heart. Caleb cried out in fear as the door to the office creaked open. The sounds of footsteps coming towards him had him hyperventilating. Suddenly, a kind face appeared in front of him; a police officer was kneeling on the ground and was speaking to him softly. "It's alright, kiddo. You're safe, now. You can come out of there. Everything is alright." The man held out a hand to him and Caleb came out cautiously. The man had seemed nice enough, and he'd promised that he was safe. It was only after he watched the men push out the black bags that held his parents' bodies that he started to hate the officer. The man had lied to him! Nothing was alright! He'd trusted him and he lied. His parents were still _dead_.

"No! Stop it! Let me go, Mac! Just let me go." The boy renewed the struggles in his arms as he realized that his thoughts were being probed.

A sudden realization caused Mac to tighten his grip in alarm; the boy winced in his arms unseen by the doctor. "Caleb, where were you today?"

This time, Dr. Ames wasn't waiting for an answer. He swept his mind through his son's and felt his heart almost stop. In his mind's eye, he watched his son as he stared out into the cold river from the top of a bridge.

The feel of wetness dripping across his arms jarred Mac from the vision. "I didn't, Mac. I swear. I wasn't going to… let me go."

Mac gasped at him, his mouth open in shock. " _Oh, Caleb_ …" His voice cracked as he tried to keep from crying.

Caleb stopped fighting, his body collapsing against his chest in defeat as he started sobbing. "I'm sorry."

Gently, Mac released Caleb's arms and allowed his legs free. Slowly, he eased the boy to his knees and pulled him tightly into a hug. Caleb's tears were wet and warm against his neck as he wrapped his arms across his back. "Shh, son. It's okay. I'm _not him_ , Caleb. You _are_ safe here. I promise you that, son."

Usually, the doctor prided himself on being emotionless in times of crisis—always allowing logic and reason to dictate his actions. This time, it was impossible to remain stoic. He let his own tears flow and drip down his face. He'd almost lost his son today and it was petrifying.

He didn't know how long both of them just hung on each other as they cried. Gradually, he became conscious that Caleb was now asleep in his arms. The boy had literally cried himself out. Gently, he lifted him and carried him into his bedroom. He lay him down soothingly on his bed, then covered him with a blanket so that he was warm. Mac pulled up a chair from his son's desk and then sat down, holding vigil.

"No," Caleb cried out softly in his sleep, "Daddy…Stop. Don't."

Mac moved to sit at the edge of his bed and then tried to wake him as tenderly as possible, not wanting to scare him any further. "Caleb. It's alright. Wake up."

Caleb screamed, then jackknifed against his hold. "No!" He pulled away, his head banging as it struck the headboard of the bed.

"It's me, Caleb. It's me—Mac." Mac sat on the bed, his hands out in front of him—showing him that he meant him no harm. He wasn't going to restrain him again unless he tried to hurt himself or run away. Mac had never forgiven the so-called psychiatric specialists for tying down a traumatized twelve-year-old child and nearly drugging him into a coma after a fear-induced suicide attempt…neither had Caleb. Mac knew that he still had nightmares about his experience there—he feared being restrained and hated hospitals now.

Mac could see his son's eyes clearing from their confusion. "Mac?" Once he recognized his adopted father, he slumped back into the cushions of his bed and focused on catching his breath.

Moving slowly, so that Caleb was aware of his motion, Mac pressed his fingers against his wrist. He counted the rapidly beating pulse under his fingers for thirty seconds, then he gave his hand a slight squeeze, wanting to let him know that he wasn't alone. "You're okay, son. Just breathe." He slid his body over so that he was also leaning against the headboard, now shoulder to shoulder with his son. Patiently, he waited for Caleb to make the next move, not wanting to pressure him, but hoping that he'd let him in before it was too late.

It didn't take long; Caleb reached out a hand for him and Mac moved to wrap his arm around his back, letting him rest his head against his shoulder. Caleb seemed calmer now, actually dazed and shaky. Mac rested his hand gently against his forehead, then grimaced as he detected a low-grade fever. It wasn't uncommon for a child under severe stress to develop fevers; stress lowered the body's immunity against certain types of pathogens. He pressed his cheek against his son's head, thinking of how to proceed.

Only one thing was certain. They needed to talk _now_. Before Caleb closed himself off—Before he slipped down the path of depression or suicide.

"How long have you been thinking about it, Caleb?" He asked the question softly. The rush of the river was clear in the vision; Caleb had obviously thought about it—but, thankfully, wasn't committed to carrying the action out. It was a cry for help; one that Mackland refused to ignore.

Tears streamed down the boy's face and his hands shook. "I wasn't going to—."

"But, you've thought about it," Mac delicately interjected. "You went to that bridge today and stood on the edge. Did you want to kill yourself?" He asked the question straight out—he needed to know if he was suicidal.

"I just thought about it—only for a _second_ — But, I didn't jump. I swear it, Mac. I don't want to die." The trembling was worse now, and it caused his teeth to chatter.

Mac quickly draped the blankets over his shoulders and started rubbing his cooling body; the fever was rising, he noticed; chills now shook the teenager. "You need to talk to me, son. I need you to tell me what you're feeling…"

"They died _today_." Caleb looked up at him brokenly. "And I was just—I didn't want to remember anymore. I couldn't deal with school or any other crap today. I was scared—I didn't want to come home…Didn't want to see _you_ —like them."

Closing his eyes, Mac silently swore at himself. ' _How could I forget_?' he thought, ' _that it was the anniversary of their deaths_?'

"Why a bridge?"

Caleb was silent for a few minutes, then explained. "It's not the bridge…it's the water—the river. I hate water."

Mac's brow scrunched in puzzlement but waited for him to continue without prodding him. This was Caleb's story and he would wait patiently for him to be comfortable enough to continue. "My mom—she, uh, she loved the beach and she always wanted my dad to build her a beach house. On their anniversary, he surprised her with it—he designed it himself. She was so happy, Mac. It was her dream house. Every day, my mom would let me play on the beach, while she painted the ocean. When my dad came home from work, we'd build sandcastles together or go sailing until it was time for dinner. Then…one day, my dad-." Caleb stopped for a few minutes; emotionally, he was exhausted and fought to just keep from falling apart. Mac readjusted his position against his chest, trying to make it him feel safe and secure in his arms.

"He was— _his eyes_. Mac, it wasn't him…he wasn't my dad. He just—went _crazy_. He stabbed Mom. And she was screaming so loud; then she just stopped. I was scared—the baby…" Caleb started sobbing, "I tried to hide…and I thought that he'd kill me too. But, he just—he shot his brains out. And I just wa—t—ch—ed." His voice broke in an effort to breathe, talk, and cry at the same time. "They—just they were gone. All of a sudden—I was the only one left. And, I just—." He stared into his adopted father's tear-filled eyes, "Sometimes—I wish that he killed me too."

Mac bit his lip but was unable to remain composed. Caleb, who had been crying, stopped abruptly to stare at the man who'd taken him in, weeping at his words. "Dad?" He asked him timidly as if he was afraid that he'd done or said something to hurt the older man.

Leaning over, Mac kissed the top of Caleb's forehead, then held onto him tightly. "Don't ever say that, son. Don't ever wish that. You have so much to live for." He pulled away so that he could stare into his eyes, "Don't you know how much I love you? Don't you know that I'd do anything to keep you safe? I told you, Caleb. You are _my_ family— _my son_. I don't want to lose you. I want you to know you can always come to me. You're not alone, son. _I'm here for you_."

Caleb sat up, rubbing his forehead. "I know that, Mac. I just—I didn't want you to think I was screwed in the head. I was scared…I didn't want to end up in a psych-ward, drugged out, and tied up again. I was afraid that you wouldn't listen to me about the bridge—that you'd think that I was going to kill myself. But, I didn't. I swear, Mac. I just go there _to think_ sometimes when things get tough. I wouldn't jump…but, today, it was _hard_ and I just— _thought_ it for a _second_ —but then, I didn't do it." Caleb stared down at his hands, "Please, believe me."

Gently, the doctor lifted his chin. "I believe you, Caleb. And I hope that you know that I would never – _ever_ do that to you, son. I think you know that, deep down. Have I ever given you a reason to doubt me? To let you think that I'd just give up on you?"

The boy just shook his head tiredly.

Mac let him rest against him, gently stroking his hair—trying to comfort him. He let his mind wander, and soon, he realized something else that he'd forgotten.

"Caleb, do you know what today is?"

There was no answer, but a small sigh.

"Today is the day that we met. It's _our_ anniversary."

"My parents—my foster parents…"

"But, you see, Caleb—all of that is in the past. You and I—we're making our own memories now. And we can replace those horrible memories with good ones—happy ones."

"I don't know…I can't right now. I'm too tired." The boy spoke honestly, he looked ill and he was losing his battle to remain awake.

"Then, just rest, son. I promise you, I'll take care of you." He helped the boy lay back down under the covers, then went into the bathroom to get him a couple of acetaminophens to help reduce his fever. He watched as Caleb swallowed the white pills, then took the glass of water from his shaky hands. Before he pulled away, he placed a damp washcloth on his pale forehead and told him to sleep.

He hoped that the morning would be kinder to the boy. He left the bedroom door open, in case of any more nightmares.

Sluggishly, he strode into the living area. Walking over to the small bar, he poured himself a glass of brandy and allowed himself to crumple on the couch. He slipped at the alcohol, then let his head fall back against the cushions.

They needed a vacation—to get away, just the two of them. It would give them a stress-free place to talk. He would take as much time as Caleb needed to get past this.

He took another sip of brandy, then reached for the phone next to him. He looked at the time and hesitated to call. It was very late, but _he_ needed someone to talk to. With a deep breath, he dialed the familiar phone number and waited for an answer.

"Hello?" A sleepy voice answered.

Mac pulled the phone away from his ear for a moment, then wiped at his face before speaking into the phone, "Dad. It's me."

"Mackland? Are you alright? You sound—upset." His father sounded worried, and he instantly felt guilty for scaring the older man.

"I'm alright. I just—need to talk to you."

"Do you want me to come over?" The man asked hesitantly.

Mac wanted to tell him no, that he should just go back to sleep, but the words that he spoke were the opposite. "Yes, please, if you don't mind…"

Cullen got out of his bed, "I'll be right over, son." He quickly threw on a comfortable pair of pants and a sweater.

Mac nodded, "Thank you. I'll leave the door open, so we don't wake the neighbors."

He heard the phone click off and stared at the phone for a few minutes until the ringing tone started to buzz through the earpiece. Unhurriedly, he hung up the phone and waited for his father to arrive.

Getting up off the couch, he unlocked the front door and then put a kettle of water on the stove. He'd considered making a pot of coffee, but the late hour would dictate that tea was a better opinion unless they wanted to stay up all night.

A short while later, he'd heard a soft knock on the door, then before he could open it—his father had come inside. Mac turned towards the older man but wasn't able to bring himself to speak. Somehow, Cullen seemed to know exactly what he needed as he pulled his son into his arms and held him tightly.

Mac wrapped his arms around his father, and couldn't stop himself from crying against his shoulder. "It's okay, son." He heard his father whisper in his ear as he gently cupped the back of his head.

The tea kettle's whistle made Mackland reluctantly pull away. He turned his back on his father, a little ashamed of himself for crying, and turned off the heat on the stove.

Cullen put his hand against his son's back when he leaned against the counter. "What's the matter, Mackland? I've never seen you this way…"

"I'm sorry, Dad. I didn't call you here to cry on your shoulder." Mackland tried to explain. "I just—it's been a tough day and I needed someone to talk to."

"You can always call me, son, even if you do need a shoulder to cry on. I'm your father." Cullen pressed his hand against his back and led him to the kitchen table. "Now, sit down. You look as if you're going to fall flat on your face. I'll make us some tea." He was pushed into a seat and then watched as his father started pulling out a couple of mugs from the cabinet, as well as the tea bags. Less than a minute later, a piping hot cup of tea was placed in front of him and he eagerly wrapped his hands around the warm mug. Slowly, it warmed him: both inside and out.

"Now, what's happened?" The older man was seriously concerned. He'd never seen his adult son break down in tears before; something bad must've happened.

Mac took a sip of tea, then stared at his hands for a while. "Does Caleb ever talk to you about his parents?"

Cullen took a sip of the hot tea before answering his son. "Sometimes; he talks mostly about his mother's paintings or his father's architectural designs. He doesn't talk about it very often, just when something reminds him of them."

Swallowing, Mac asked, "Like what?"

With a smile, his father answered, "Like an art gallery or a certain type of architecture. Bridges. That boy loves bridges. When we go on our walks, he always stops at the center of a bridge. We stand, just staring at the horizon until its dark out. He can _go on_ about them, Mackland…telling me about the support structures and the styles. He knows which ones are the highest, the longest. I was thinking of taking him to see the Tower Bridge in London one day. I think it's something the boy needs to do before he goes off to college."

Mac laughed sarcastically, "If he makes it that far…Masterson's kicked him out this morning. I'm just trying to get him to graduate high school."

"It's just a phase, son. He's a little wild, I know, but he has a good heart. Be patient with him…"

"I'm trying, Dad. But, I feel like a failure. Do you know that today was the anniversary of his parents' death? I completely forgot about it and left him on his own. He stole my stationery and wrote a forged absence note, then skipped school." Mac took another sip of the hot tea, wincing as it burned the back of his throat. "Then he walked to the bridge, stood on the edge and thought about jumping."

The old man's hand flew to cover his mouth. "No. My god, Mackland. Is he alright?" Cullen jumped up as if he were going to hunt for the boy.

Mac grasped his hand and pulled him back into the chair before he woke Caleb. "He's alright, Dad. Caleb's asleep."

"What are you saying, son? That he wanted to kill himself?" Cullen looked completely shaken.

"I think—he was just overwhelmed today. He admitted that he did think about for a moment, but pulled back. I don't think that he was serious about it…he didn't make the attempt. But, I'm very worried. Did he ever talk to you about it?"

Hurt flashed in his father's eyes that he was unable to mask. "You honestly think that I would keep something like that from you? You think that if Caleb had told me that he was having suicidal thoughts that you wouldn't be the first person I call? I know things are strained between us, son, but you should know that I wouldn't want anything to happen to my grandson." He'd clearly offended him.

Mac clenched his eyes tightly, then slowly opened them. "Dad. Listen. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way—I just…I don't know what I'm saying right now. I know you love Caleb. I don't know why I asked that. I'm sorry."

Cullen patted his hand lightly in understanding. The news had thrown them all for a loop. "You said that he's alright? Does he need—professional help? I know of a few facilities that would privately care for him. No one would have to know…"

Mac rubbed his forehead, "Dad, trust me, if we choose that route—we'll lose him forever. Putting him in a clinic is his worst fear and I promised him that I wouldn't do that to him. I think we've caught this early enough to keep him from downward spiraling."

"So, what's your plan, son? What do you want to do?" The old man leaned closer to his son, waiting anxiously to hear his idea. They all wanted to help Caleb.

There was a slight glint in Mackland's eye as he spoke. Cullen listened intently, a smile forming on his face once he'd realized what his son wanted to do. He nodded in agreement; it was perfect—Caleb would love it and most of all, know that he was loved.

Caleb woke gradually when he felt a warm hand on his forehead. He'd jerked slightly when a cool washcloth replaced the hand. Peeling his eyes open, he gave a half-smile at the sight of his father perched on the edge of his bed.

"Good morning, Caleb. How are you feeling?" Mac's voice was soft. His hair was a little bushy; he looked as if he hadn't slept the night.

"I'm better, Dad." Caleb swallowed, his eyes filling slightly. "I'm sorry…I didn't mean what I said yesterday."

Mac shook his head, "Don't worry about it." Caleb felt comforted when the man cupped his face and then kissed his forehead. He wasn't surprised when his father's hands moved down his throat and gently palpated his neck. "You still have a bit of a fever. I just wanted to give you a quick check-up; make sure you're alright."

Caleb wanted to roll his eyes but was too tired. He allowed the doctor to examine him; if he didn't, he'd probably force him to go to the hospital or something. The man took his work much too seriously.

He winced when he felt the cold metal of the stethoscope touch his warm skin, but breathed in and out as he was instructed. Once his lungs were determined to be uncompromised, the warm hands checked his abdomen, gently probing him.

"I'm fine, Mac. It's just a fever. I feel fine."

As usual, the doctor ignored him and continued his exam. Once he was done, Mac helped Caleb up and helped him to the bathroom to wash up.

Caleb pushed the man out of the bathroom and shut the door behind him. He didn't need a chaperone to pee. He'd been doing it on his own since the age of two, thank you very much.

He stared at himself in the mirror; he felt horrible and was surprised to find that he looked exactly the same as he had before. Leaning down, he stared into the glistening white sink and watched as the water flowed down the drain. He'd hurt Mac—he swore at him and tried to physically fight him. If he'd tried that with anyone else, they would've beaten the shit out of him. He knew that from previous experience.

Mac was different—He didn't hit him or curse at him. He always kept his promises. Mac was always there for him, even when he treated him like a jerk. If he was ever in any trouble, all he'd have to do was call and the man would drop what he was doing to be there. Unfortunately, it was usually the teachers that called him; but he got the point. Mac always made him a priority in his life.

Caleb stared back into the mirror, a little sad. He truly didn't know what he'd done to deserve the man's kindness. Sometimes, he felt that he wasn't worth it—Mac should have a kid that wasn't screwed up. Maybe a baby—like Sam. He'd met the Winchester brothers on one of Mac's forced trips to Pastor Jim's farm. The five-year-old little kid didn't impress him—hell, he didn't even talk, and from the whispered conversations that he'd eavesdropped on, the kid was probably as screwed up as he was, if not worse. But he'd noticed that his adopted father liked the baby. He'd pick Sam up and read him little kid stories; all the while, his big brother would be glaring at the older man as if he were trying to kidnap his baby brother. And it was only out of sheer boredom that he'd sat down with Dean and read to him from the 'The Three Musketeers' book that Mac had bought him. He completely ignored the mushy look the man gave to him as he watched them together.

And now, even when he'd done his worst and hit rock bottom—Mac still cared about him. He still took care of him, made sure he wasn't sick, hugged, and kissed him like a real father.

A knock on the door startled him. "Caleb? Are you okay in there?"

Caleb turned off the faucet, wiped his hands then came out of the bathroom. "I'm fine, Mac." He figured that would be the question of the day.

Mac stood in front of him and put a hand on his shoulder. "If you're feeling up to it, could you please pack your things? I pulled out a suitcase for you."

Caleb jerked away from his touch, fear, and panic making his heart race. "What?" He ducked from Mac's attempt to grab him and almost collided into his grandfather.

Cullen had been on the phone, so he quickly ended the call and stepped in front of his grandson before he could run. "Caleb, calm down. We're just going on a little trip, that's all."

Mac quickly walked up to the boy, knowing his words had been misunderstood. "Caleb, your grandfather, and I have decided that we all need to get away for a little while. Go on a vacation. We really haven't had the opportunity to go anywhere, just the three of us and, since you're no longer a student at Masterson's Prep—this is a perfect time."

Caleb's face colored, "Oh." He looked at his feet.

Mac touched his shoulder again, and when he looked up he found the older man kneeling in front of him so that they were eye to eye. "I promised you that I wouldn't do anything to hurt you."

"Yeah," Caleb nodded. "I know…I just thought—."

"I wouldn't do that to you. Remember?" Mac grasped his hand tightly. "So, what do you think about going on a trip with two old men?" He groaned slightly as he stood, he was a bit sore after the work-out Caleb gave him yesterday.

Cullen put both hands on his hips, "Speak for yourself, Mackland. Caleb knows that I'm –what _did_ you call me—Oh, yes! I'm awesome!"

Caleb laughed, then ran to his grandfather and hugged him in hello. "When did you get here?"

Cullen patted the boy's head, "This morning, while you were still sleeping." He put a hand to his forehead, "I'm glad that you're feeling better now. Your father and I were worried about you."

"I didn't mean to worry you—either of you." He looked at his father, then his grandfather. "I just—wanted to get away."

Cullen nodded, "Which is why I picked a perfect place—all three of us can get away from the world for a while and spend quality time together."

The way he said it made Mac a little nervous, hopefully this wasn't some kind of rural fruit-of-the-earth type of place. While people like John Winchester seemed to be the roughing-it type, it wasn't something that Mackland would ever consider relaxing.

"I booked us the executive penthouse at the Glade Springs Resort," Cullen said, almost snootily.

Caleb's eyebrows shot up, "A Resort?" He sounded unimpressed.

Cullen became slightly defensive, "I'll have you know, young man, that Glade Springs houses two out of five top-rated golf courses in the state of West Virginia!"

"Golf?" Caleb was starting to get depressed again. It didn't sound like he would have any fun on this trip.

Mac smiled at his son, trying to be encouraging, "Dad, you're forgetting the best part."

"Oh, that's right. There is something there that might interest you, Caleb." Cullen drew out his words, making it sounds mysterious.

"What's that?" Caleb wasn't really in the mood to play around.

Grandpa handed him a faxed copy of a printed brochure, "I assumed you wouldn't be interested in golf…so, while I'm off practicing my swing, I thought that you and Mackland might want to take a walk across the New River Gorge Bridge."

Caleb's mouth dropped open as he stared at the enormous, beautifully constructed bridge. He stared at his father, "Really? You'd come with me to see it? You're not afraid that I'd…"

Mac looked into the boy's eyes, and asked him honestly, "Should I be?"

"No," Caleb shook his head, "I wouldn't do that to you."

"You know, I want you to come to me if you ever feel that way again. Please, Caleb. Just promise me that."

"I promise, Mac." Caleb was sincere. He didn't want to hurt the man who'd taken him in. He spotted his backpack on the floor where he threw it yesterday and walked over to pick it up. Placing the bag on the kitchen table, Caleb unzipped the front compartment and pulled out a familiar pad of paper.

Mac ignored the boy's trembling hand as he handed him his stolen stationary pad. The thirteen-year-old stared at his feet, "I'm sorry, Mac."

"Come with me." Caleb glanced up in shock when Mac grabbed his hand and then pulled him over to what they'd deemed the kitchen 'junk' drawer. The boy watched as he put the pad in the drawer, then pushed it shut. "I'm going to leave the pad in this drawer. Now, you know my policy on education; I'm not changing that nor will I allow you to go wild, son. But, if you need a break—if things are overwhelming and you can't handle school, I'm willing to listen to you. And I'm willing to _write_ you a note excusing you from classes. I don't want you to forge my signature, Caleb, or invent any illnesses." Mac looked stern, "You have no idea what could've happened, son. What if you collapsed in school and the teachers told the doctors that you had a seizure disorder? They would administer anti-seizure drugs—ones that might hurt you. So, no more lying and no more stealing. If you need _anything,_ just ask me. Okay, son?"

"Okay." Caleb's head was starting to spin a little bit and he closed his eyes. The situation wasn't going as he was expecting. He thought that the man would freak out—start yelling and screaming at him. He'd heard the saying that anticipation was the worst form of torture, but he really didn't know how true it was until he started living with Dr. Ames. Some days, he was just waiting for the man to go off on him…and it was always anticlimactic when he didn't.

"Caleb. Caleb." He'd heard his name being called a few times, so he decided to open his eyes. He was extremely surprised to find himself staring at the ceiling. "Hey, it's okay. You're okay." He forced his gaze to the voice and found his father sitting on the floor beside him, stroking his forehead and shoulder. Someone was holding his hand, so he turned to see his grandfather's concerned face.

"What happened?" His voice was weak, almost a whimper.

"You fainted, son." Mac looked tiredly at his father, "Perhaps we should put our trip on hold, Dad."

The older man looked incredibly worried, "I think that's a good idea—until Caleb feels better."

"No," Caleb struggled to pull himself off the floor and found himself held down by two sets of arms, "I wanna go. Please?"

"Caleb…you need to rest." Mac didn't want to argue.

"Dad. We'll be at a decked-out resort, won't we? I won't even have to get out of bed to feed myself—I can call room service! I promise I'll rest!" Caleb looked at him, pleading with his eyes.

The two older men communicated silently and seemed to come up with a decision. Mac gently helped him sit up and watched him like a hawk to make sure he wouldn't pass out again. Once he was upright, they helped him into a kitchen chair. Mac left him in his grandfather's care as he went over to the refrigerator and pulled out the container of orange juice. He poured a tall glass of the juice and then handed it to him. "Alright, we'll go. But, I want you to drink that. Drink it slowly and I want you to drink **all** of it. Considering you probably haven't eaten anything in twenty-four hours… I'll see about fixing us some breakfast, while Dad packs your things?" He looked towards his father, checking to see if that arrangement was agreeable.

Cullen ran a hand across his grandson's head before getting up to walk to his bedroom. "Not to worry, Caleb. I have a superior sense of style—not like your father. I'll pack you _cool_ clothes." Mac rolled his eyes, his father loved to make jokes out of his expense.

"Thanks, grandpa." The boy smiled, drinking the orange juice.

Mac had made quick work out of frying a couple of eggs. He placed the plate in front of Caleb, then sat down next to his son. "Are you sure that you're up to this trip, son?"

Caleb gulped down the last bit of juice, "Absolutely. I feel better now. Not as shaky…" He pulled the plate of eggs closer to him, the stabbed at the yolk with his fork. "I guess I'm just hungry or something."

"You really want to see that bridge, huh?" Mac arched an eyebrow at him.

"Yeah, I do. There's just…something about it. It would be, just awesome to see it." It wasn't hard to see Caleb's enthusiasm for the subject.

"You know, you've never mentioned it to me…that you love bridges." His father knew about his grandson's passion, but it was something Caleb had never mentioned to him. For a moment, Mac feared that he'd pushed too hard because Caleb didn't respond.

The boy looked as if he were caught in a memory, but shook himself out of it a few seconds later. "When I was little," he looked up, waiting to see if he had a captive audience, "My dad, he used to bring home model kits. Some of them were cars, and planes…you know the normal ones? He'd buy the more complicated ones: buildings, castles, ships—and bridges and he'd work on them almost every night. Do you know how you and I read together before bed? Well, my dad and I would build something."

Mac smiled, "That sounds like fun. Something that you and your father enjoyed doing together."

"It _was_ fun. My favorite things to build were the bridges. I don't know, but when I see a bridge—it reminds of my parents."

They were silent for a while when suddenly Mac remembered something. "You know, I have a couple of books that you might like, Caleb." Mac stood up and walked over to his bookshelf. He pulled out two books: Walt Whitman's "Leaves of Grass" and "An Autobiography" by Frank Lloyd Wright. While he wasn't sure that his thirteen year old son would appreciate a book of poetry, Frank Lloyd Wright's work would most definitely spark an interest for the budding architect. "Perhaps you can read them on the flight to West Virginia?"

He handed him the books and watched him flip through the pages. "Thanks, Dad."

From across the hall, Cullen watched his son and grandson interact. It warmed his heart to hear Caleb call Mackland 'Dad', just as it did when he called him 'Grandpa'. The boy would be alright. They'd both make sure of it.

Caleb Reaves stood at the center of the huge steel-arch bridge, eight hundred and seventy-six feet above the ground with his father by his side.

They'd made it to the highest and longest bridge in the world.

Mac laughed, "Thankfully, neither of us has a fear of heights, son." He bumped their shoulders together and pointed at the sunset. "Thank you for sharing this with me, Caleb. It's a beautiful sight—one I don't think that I'll ever forget."

Caleb turned his head, "I'm never going to forget it, either. You know why?"

Shaking his head, Mac waited for him to tell him.

"Because I'm on top of the world with my dad."

Mac wrapped his arms around his shoulders and gave him a hug. "You're right, son. We are on top of the world."

Together, they sat shoulder to shoulder and waited for the sun to disappear in the sky.

**Author's Note:**

> The "Prep" Schools mentioned do not exist. I just made them up. This story also ties into my previous story: My Space? (Posted on Fanfiction.net) 
> 
> There are some references from "And Innocents" By Ridley C. James on Fanfiction.net.
> 
> Thank you to Tara, for the beta work!


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